The little cat sat beneath the old garden wall again, watching. The others leapt easily from fence to roof, their shadows stretching thin in the moonlight. But Miso just stared, motionless. Her legs never tensed. Her tail never twitched.
She didn’t try anymore.
Sometimes, people walking past would whisper, “Poor thing—maybe it’s too scared.” But those who lingered too long noticed something else. The way the cat’s eyes followed them. The way its reflection didn’t always match its movements.
One night, the wind stopped. The garden fell silent. Miso turned her head slowly toward the top of the wall—something was waiting there. Another shape. Another Miso, grinning too wide, tail twitching in rhythm to nothing.
The real one—or the one below—didn’t move.
And when morning came, there was only one cat in the garden again. Sitting. Watching. Still unable to jump.